I find myself too kind of a person and somewhat of a care-taker at times. Sometimes I cannot handle the weight of another’s burdon, but generally I take the role of therapist and it’s beneficial to me because it opens doors between us. Caroline was a teen who hurt herself because she couldn’t see how hard people were trying to portray their affection, family included. She put on a smile, but her arms showed us the truth.
Bandages and therapy, I find, can’t ease her troubled mind
in the battle with elated blades, unkind this time.
Holding the grenade too tight repaid with lights,
flashing at night.
Jaded soul, persuasion and expended effort is detested
she is apathetic, manifested in red anaesthetic pleasure
that stained the carpet.
Leaving home to shelter afar, the selfish dissonence
split the air and tore apart
hearts too.
The last game was pitched for a while,
was it worth the scars?
Finding Grace in the light, a faceless reflection
seen by innocent connections, benefactors who
were never worthy of your self-deception.
Heresy, a marginal contradiction to your words, and
egocentrism were the only exceptions.
Don’t tell me I never tried, expect little
when it was only you who lied.
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